After the Fall
by prettyedsilence
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes comes back from the dead, everyone expects John Watson to be thrilled. But he's not. In fact, he's not sure that he can ever forgive Sherlock, and Sherlock isn't sure how to make him. Up to interpretation. Semi Reichenbach spoilers


It's been four weeks since Sherlock came back from the dead, and I still can't forgive him.

When Sherlock first strode up to me on Baker Street – said he knew I was in the habit of coming by and staring – I thought I was having a mental breakdown. I wanted that vision of the tall, rail-thin man with curly black hair and the pale face to be true. I had wanted it so much that I must have brought on a nervous breakdown. It wasn't surprising somehow that the war hadn't managed to bring on PTSD, but losing Sherlock had.

I knelt down on the street, clutching my head and rocking back and forth, muttering, "It can't be real. He's dead. He's dead, remember, he's dead. You've lost it, John. Come back, please, come back." I didn't know if I was talking to Sherlock or myself.

I felt knees hit the ground next to me, and cold fingers touch my hand and neck.

"It's alright now, John," Sherlock's voice, detached even then, had murmured. "I'm here. I'm back. It was all part of the game, just part of a game. I'm sorry, I had to."

Sherlock has never explained why, but I'm not stupid. I've seen the way he sneaks glances at me every once in awhile when he thinks I'm not looking. He did it to save me. Somehow, some way, this played into Moriarty's sick little game. Sherlock tells me Moriarty is dead too, but I'm not sure I believe it. If Sherlock can rise from the grave, why not his arch-nemesis?

But still, I cannot forgive him.

Sherlock moved right back into 221 B Baker Street, nearly giving poor old Mrs. Hudson a heart attack in the process. He asked me when I planned to move in over an armful of very old, possibly stolen, harpoons.

"I… don't," I heard myself say distantly. I narrowed my eyes at Sherlock as if I were nearsighted; I do that now. I keep waiting for him to fade away in front of my eyes.

Sherlock paused.

"Oh," he finally said. He looked away and then reached for his phone, dropping all the harpoons in the process. He never asks again.

So I slope home out of the hospital to my tiny new flat every day, avoiding cheerful smiles and pats on the back. Those first few days when the news got out were horrendous; everyone knew how devastated I'd been. For months, it had been written all over my face. I'd known it, and hadn't been able to stop it. But the congratulations on Sherlock's miraculous revival hurt almost more than the sympathy had.

The truth is, I still feel like I've lost Sherlock. I know the Sherlock who drinks my tea, steals my laptop, and demands that I meet him just so he can use my mobile. I do not know this new Sherlock who will give his life for his friends. Who sent me away just when he needed me most. Who is too human on his own already to need John Watson.

The intercom buzzes. I let it go. The new girl – Sarah, or was it Rebecca? – that I'd limped back into dating with is having a problem letting go. I sympathize, but as before, Sherlock is taking up too much room in my life to let a girlfriend in.

It buzzes again. And again. And again. Five, six, seven times.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Lying on my side, I stare wide-eyed at the wall my bed is pushed up against. I clutch my hair and grit my teeth, willing her to go away. Or for it to be a bill collector who just wants to break my kneecaps; anyone but another person needing some kind of emotions out of me.

The buzzer beeps and a cold, detached voice echoes through the little flat.

"It's me, John. Please let me in." Sherlock sounds tired, maybe. Or bored. Perhaps even sorry.

I jump to my feet before I realize what I'm doing and stagger to the door. I jam my finger to the intercom and start yelling.

"Why should I? You bloody well didn't let me in for months! Months! I…" I fall silent as I realize what I'm doing. So far, I've kept up an icy front to rival Sherlock's own. I haven't shouted, haven't punched him, have barely spoken to him. I'm not even sure why he's speaking to me now.

"John, let me up. You haven't been to work in two days."

"What do you mean I haven't been…" I sputter, taken aback. "Of course I've been to work!"

"Oh really?" Sherlock doesn't sound sarcastic, just anxious. Or perhaps I only hear what I want to. Or what I don't want to. I don't know anymore. "What patients did you see today?"

I rack my brain trying to recall. "I saw, uh…" I look down at my clothes. Jeans and no shirt. Old jeans; there's a hole in the knee. "I… I can't remember." Suddenly my knees feel weak.

"Let me in, John."

I flip the switch to let him in. Then I go back to bed.

Half a minute later – Sherlock must have sprinted up the stairs – the door flies open and heavy footsteps pound toward my bed.

"John." Long, ice-cold fingers touch my shoulder and try to turn me away from the wall. I stiffen my body and refuse to move. The fingers travel from my shoulders to my wrists, taking my pulse and turning each of them over to reveal the smooth, unmarked underside.

"John, listen to me." Yes, his voice is definitely anxious. Frantic, in fact. "John, did you take anything? I need to know exactly what you took." His fingertips travel to my neck and take my pulse there. I realize they're shaking. I bat them away.

"Leave me alone." Not satisfied with this level of immaturity, I pull my arms up over my head and curl into the fetal position.

"No."

The word momentarily disorients me. I blink and realize that my eyes have been squeezed shut.

"No?" I turn my head just the slightest bit to the right. I can see a little of his face through the crack between my arm and my eye.

Sherlock covers his face with his hands for a moment and breathes in. Of course he does. Have to keep a cool front. Wouldn't do to get frustrated in front of one of the plebes. I clench my fists and turn my face back to the pillow.

"No, wait, John, no. I'm not frustrated, I'm just…"

"I wasn't thinking anything," I'm unable to resist muttering.

"Yes, yes, of course." I get the feeling he's trying to be re-conciliatory. It doesn't suit him.

"Look, would you just take what you want and get out of here?" I yell, losing my cool completely. I clench my arms tightly around my head, blocking out my ears as best I can. I squeeze my eyes shut. But I can still feel the warm weight of his body next to mine, weighing down the edge of the bed, and it feels wrong. This man isn't here. He isn't alive. He left me, and he's gone.

There's a long pause. I wonder idly if he actually doesn't know what to say, or if this is another mind game. Well, if it is, I don't care. We can both rot here and I won't move.

"I want you, John," Sherlock says in a low voice.

This is maybe the only thing that could have gotten my attention. I push myself halfway up involuntarily and look around at him. "Pardon?"

Sherlock makes a movement like he wants to grab me, but he stays still.

"I mean it, John. I need you. I made this much effort to come back to life, and I'm not about to let you leave me."

My cheeks start to burn.

"Is that what this is about, then?" My fingernails are digging into my palms. I think I feel blood. "Me being a bit upset didn't feature into your plans? It doesn't suit you that you ruined my life and never bothered to call and tell me it was all a trick? It was alright for you to leave me, but if I even think about backing away without permission - What are you going to do If I die, huh? Scold me? Or will it even matter? Do you have ANY idea what it was like?" I am screaming now, at the top of my lungs, the heat of my anger boiling my insides and blocking out the entire world except Sherlock's quiet figure, his head bowed and his hands clasped in his lap.

"I'm sorry," he interrupts, and I fall silent. He raises his head and looks at me. I'm panting. "My… word choice was poor. That wasn't what I meant."

The first flush of anger is gone, but the agony has remained with me.

"Look, I don't care what you meant," I say. "You disappeared. You - were dead. And now you're not, and I'm supposed to be happy about it, but I'm not. Okay? I'm not." The weight of those words comes crashing down on me like a tidal wave. It's true. I'm angry; I'm bitter; I'm out of control – but I have not yet felt happy that Sherlock has come alive. All I felt when I first saw him was fear that my mind had cracked, and then an all-consuming numbness, with anger fading in and out from time to time. I have never felt less joyous in my entire life.

"I'm sorry," I almost whisper. "I'm sure you're upset, or disappointed, or whatever it is you can feel. But I can't do this." I turn towards the door and push myself up.

The instant I raise myself off the bed, I see Sherlock's pale blue eyes flash towards me. He lunges at me and next thing I know, I am flat on my back, with his tall, skinny form hovering overtop of me. I realize that his hands are encircling my wrists, pulling them above my head and pressing them to the bed.

"John. Dr. Watson. John." Sherlock's face is right above mine. His blue eyes are piercing me; out of reflex, I wonder what he sees. The words are spilling out of his mouth, and his lips are trembling. "John. During everything that happened with Moriarty, after Moriarty, not for one second did you doubt me. You knew that I always told the truth. Am I right?"

I nod unwillingly, and try to turn my face away. "That doesn't mean anything. I just – I just didn't believe Moriarty."

"No, wrong." There is the ring of absolute certainty in his voice for the first time during this conversation. When I hear it, something echoes inside me. Some part of me, buried down deep, has to know what it is he wants to tell me.

"John, you didn't believe in what I said. No matter what words had come out of my mouth, you would have believed me. See, you believed in me - in me, not in what the evidence said."

"Yeah, I know, I'm an idiot that way," I say bitterly, finally seeing where this is going. Once again, Sherlock needs his little pet. He needs a skull – literally, I don't have to talk or move or even breathe – to explain all his brilliant theories out loud to. "I get it, you want to bounce ideas off my thick head. Will you get off me now?"

Even though I'm looking off to the side, my cheek pushed into the bed as far as it will go, I can't help but see his forehead furrow out of the corner of my eye.

"No, no," he says in a quiet rush. I know that tone. He isn't talking to me; he's talking to himself. "This is all wrong. This isn't what I want to say."

"Yeah?" Anger surges in me, though he hasn't really done anything. Not yet. "Well too bad. I'm going."

I clench my muscles and shove Sherlock upwards with all my might, slamming my body into him and tearing my wrists out of his grasp. But he must have been somehow expecting it, because he takes the hit with a single gasp, and shoves himself back down onto me so that he's lying on top of me, his body pressed into mine, and his hands are clenched tighter than ever around my wrists.

"Sherlock!" I bellow out of sheer frustration.

"John, please." His voice really is pleading, and it makes me stop for a second. That's all he needs.

Sherlock's body relaxes on top of mine, so that he's not longer grinding me into the bed, and is now lying on top of me like it's a perfectly natural, comfortable position. It's ridiculous; he's far too tall and I'm far too short for this. Even if we were the other way around, I'm too stocky and he's too thin. It would never look right.

"John." He repeats my name and I feel Sherlock's breath on my lips because his face is so close to mine, like he's afraid to give me the slightest bit of space. "Listen to me, please, John. I know how very... very angry you are with me. And you deserve to be. I wish -" He breaks off and grits his teeth, shutting his eyes for a moment. "I wish I could say this better, but I can't. Please believe me, I don't mean to be disrespectful, or rude. But you're not really angry with me, are you John?"

His eyes snap open and bore into mine. His eyes. His blue, gray, piercing eyes that can command all the knowledge of the heavens and earth, staring straight at me. Sherlock's eyes.

"No," I breathe.

"That's right." A smile almost touches his lips – victory or relief? I can't tell anymore. "You're not angry with me. You're afraid. You're afraid that I'm not really here; that this is some figment of your imagination."

"No – no," I say. "I – I'm afraid that you're going… I'm afraid that you're going to disappear again." My voice breaks on the last word. I turn my head away, suddenly terrified that I might cry.

The pressure releases around my right wrist and Sherlock's cold fingers touch my chin, turning it gently back toward him.

"Yes, yes," he says urgently. "That's it. You think that this is going to happen again."

"I know it will!" I growl. I yank my face out of his hand, ignoring the surprised – hurt? – look on his face. "Sherlock, you did it once and you'll bloody well do it again! Any time it's inconvenient for you to be alive, well, that's just too bad for your friends then, innit? Don't worry about us, we'll just soldier on." Blasted tears prick at my eyes and I close them, trying to keep it under control.

"And so they all would," Sherlock murmurs. His hand is on my face again, but this time, it's the cool back of his hand stroking my cheek. Maybe he's just searching for evidence of tears, but it's comforting somehow. "Except for you, John."

I keep my eyes close and somehow manage to make my voice steady as I say, "I'm sorry I'm such a freak of nature, then. I know – I know it isn't healthy for me to be this attached. I don't even know why I am; I shouldn't be."

"John, John." Sherlock is almost crooning to me, and my eyes fly open. His face looks as gentle as his sharp cheekbones and long angles can manage, and his eyes are half closed, just looking at me – not analyzing, just looking.

"I'm so sorry about what I had to do. I didn't do it willingly – a man had to die in order for me to agree to it. I was out of options." My eyes open wide at that, but he doesn't seem to notice. "I would have done anything I could to keep you from this, but… I'm sorry… I'm very sorry…" His voice becomes so quiet that I can barely hear him. I wouldn't be able to hear him if it wasn't for the fact that his lips are barely two inches from my own. "I just couldn't stand to lose you."

There is no stopping the tears now. They overflow from my eyes and run down my cheeks. I don't care; I barely notice them.

"Did it… did it hurt you too? A little?" I manage to gasp out.

Sherlock's eyes widen and he does that thing he does when he looks as if he's really noticing me for the first time.

"Dear God, yes, John." His hands are shaking again. "I watched you, you know. I couldn't help it. I knew it would be smarter to keep my distance, that acknowledging your pain would not help it, but I'm afraid that... sentiment... got the better of me." His hand clenches so tightly around my left wrist that it's painful, but I don't mind. Pale blue eyes bore into mine, and even though I can barely see them through my tears, I can feel them seeing through me. "I saw everything. All the pain you felt, I felt. And I knew I was causing it for you, and I couldn't do anything to stop it, even though I was close enough to reach out and touch you."

A sob escapes my lips, and I reach up and wrap my arms around his chest. He goes stiff with surprise at first, but then relaxes and twines his long arms around my neck, rubbing his hnds down my back. I push him onto his side, so we're facing each other, and then I put my face on his chest and cry.

Hours later – possibly days – Sherlock says something. My whole head has gone a bit fuzzy from all the crying, and I'm feeling so drained that I had just nodded off against his chest, so I say, "Hmm?"

"Are things – are we – are you okay again?" Sherlock asks so awkwardly that it jerks a laugh out of me.

I can almost hear his brain noting that down and analyzing it. "Laughter. Laughter is a positive sign. Release, positivity."

I tug on his sleeve and shake my head, which has wound up resting on his shoulder. "Not now, Sherlock. I'm tired."

"You processed a lot of emotion. It's only natural that you'd feel tired. Anger, despair, relief; they're very intense."

"Sherlock!" I try to push myself up to look at him, but his wiry arms tighten around me. One arm is wrapped around my back, and one hand is twined in my hair. It's been a little while since I've had it cut.

"No," he says, his voice calm and quiet. Detached, even. I don't care. "No, you go to sleep."

It strikes me now that it's a bit funny that I've spent the last few hours on my bed in my best friend's arms. If anyone finds out about this, it is not going to help us dispel the rumors.

"Maybe I should -" I mumble. Sherlock shakes his head.

"Stay here, John," he whispers. "I've got you."

As I fall into peaceful oblivion wrapped in my best friend's arms, I know that never once has he promised that he won't do it again, should he need to. I know that no matter what he thinks or says, Sherlock will never truly understand the way it felt all that time, like my world had caved in and I was left falling down a huge dark hole with no way of ever stopping myself or climbing back out. And I know that if it happens again, I will be left with doubts that will compete with the darkness to swallow me up.

But tonight, I know that I am something to this great man; that I am important enough for him to do what it takes to bring me back from the edge. Tonight, his arms around me will be strong enough to keep the nightmares back.


End file.
